Second Star to the Right
by Veritalias
Summary: AU: A crippled Starfleet fights to survive in a lawless galaxy. But fate is not so easily altered, and James T Kirk's destiny is set in stone.


Second Star To The Right

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Disclaimer: If it doesn't belong to me, chances are that it isn't mine.

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Author's notes:

I know what you're thinking right now. You're thinking, "Veritalias, you idiot! This movie came out over a year ago! It is far, far too late to be posting fanfic about it!" And if you're thinking that... you're probably totally right.

And yes, I am _perfectly_ aware that I have just screwed with canon like it was an Orion slave girl. So what, who cares.

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1. **For the world is hollow**

_San Francisco burns._

_The Academy is gone– decimated entirely. Most of Starfleet's Admiralty fell with it. The Golden Gate bridge is nothing more than a twisted hunk of metal, and most of San Fransisco's buildings were vaporized in the initial impact._

_The few survivors, buried under burning wreckage, scream out for help that never comes._

_This is Starfleet, three days after the betrayal._

_The remaining higher-ups do their best to compensate. Starfleet is a military organization, after all, and they have been trained to act calmly and efficiently in even the worst of circumstances. In another time, another place, another universe, it might have been enough._

_But they are not alone._

_The Klingons are the first to attack but the Romulans quickly follow. And then everyone is quick to take advantage of the panic and confusion. Colonies dissolve. Laws break down The United Federation of Planets is crippled, and never quite manages to recover._

_Watching the chaos from his broken throne at the edge of the galaxy, Nero laughs in triumph._

_._

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2. **That which survives**

Ten days, seven hours, and twenty-three point four minutes since the Defiant was destroyed.

Eight days, ten hours, and one point five minutes since their escape pod had been rescued by a New Frontier ship.

Eight days, nine hours, and forty point seven minutes since they had been imprisoned in the ship's brig, awaiting the captain's decision.

"It'll be alright," Nyota did her best to assure him, but her soft words echoed hollowly against metallic walls.

For his part, Spock showed no emotion. He drew himself from his meditation, opening his eyes to look over at his fellow captive.

Nyota Uhura– his student, a fellow Starfleet officer, and one of the most intelligent humans he'd ever met– smiled gently at him once she had his attention. "It'll be alright, you'll see," she whispered comfortingly.

"I calculate the odds of our survival at only forty-six point three-seven percent," Spock said dryly. "Your confidence is illogical."

Nyota only smiled, closing her eyes in exhaustion. She shifted closer to him, copying his stance: back against the wall of the small cell, legs out straight before her. She laid her head against his shoulder and tried to relax.

"I hope–"

What she hoped for was cut off. There was a hiss and a snap as the forcefield at the entrance of the cell was shut off. Both Spock and Uhura were on their feet within moments, their hands going for phasers that weren't at their hips.

"Now, now, none of that," the rough-faced man that entered the brig said mockingly, his own phase rifle pointed directly at Uhura's chest. "Settle down now, children."

He stared at them for a long minutes, though his gaze lingered for a disproportionate amount of time over Uhura's chest. "So this is Starfleet, eh?" He leaned over and spat on the floor at Spock's feet. "Can't say I'm much impressed."

From his actions, Spock surmised that this must be the captain of the ship. "Captain, I must protest–" he began, only for the rifle's muzzle to swing menacingly over in his direction.

"Keep yer mouth shut, Vulcanian," the captain slurred.

His mispronunciation of Spock's species's name did nothing to annoy the Vulcan.

When it seemed that Spock was not about to respond, the captain turned back to Uhura. "As ye probably know, us here at New Frontier don't much like you uppity Starfleet types. We don't need your sort around here, do we, men?"

There was a series of derisive jeers from the armed guards at the door.

"Right," the captain looked pleased at his men's support. "So we were gonna space you, but then we thought that since you was human, better not do that."

It was to their luck that New Frontier– for an anti-Starfleet paramilitary terrorist organization– was also violently pro-human. That at least meant that Uhura would be safe.

"So you intend to leave us on a habitable planet?" Spock prompted, drawing the captain's attention back to himself.

"Oh no, that's the deal for the little lade over 'ere. But we've got a special treat for ya, Vulcanian," the human smiled unpleasantly.

Spock had to quell the immediate response– Vulcan, not Vulcanian– and managed to keep his expert opinion as to the state of the man's intelligence to himself. Mostly. But there was a certain amount of derision in his gaze as he stared the unwashed men down.

"See, I heard that th' planet Vulcan's a real hot place, if ya know what I mean. What my Doc, Len, here," the captain dragged an unshaved man in from the corridor, and clapped the him on the shoulder, "told me, is that makes ya more susceptible to cold temperatures. That right?"

Spock remained silent. He ruthlessly suppressed the worried emotions that blossomed in the pit of his stomach.

"An' lucky fer us, there's a real nice cold planet not too far n'here," Leader's face twisted into something that parodied a smile. "I'm sure ya'll have yerself a lovely time on Delta Vega."

Spock fixed the doctor's– Len's– appearance in his mind. The man was pale, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a square jaw that bore two days' worth of stubble. If he made it through this ordeal intact– an occurrence with a probability of 1.67 percent– he would waste no time in hunting down this murderous doctor and bringing him to justice.

"Worried?" The leader's smile was eerily sharklike, and showed too many teeth. "You should be."

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* * *

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Vulcan physiology was uniquely suited to extreme temperatures, but it had descended from the hellishly hot sands and shifting winds of the planet Vulcan. Spock himself, as Starfleet officer, had been exposed to more than his fair share of extreme weather conditions as part and parcel of the various peacekeeping missions he'd been a part of.

Delta Vega rendered all of those advantages null.

The inner eyelid that so handily protected Vulcan eyes from harsh sand and wind was no match for the stinging ice crystals borne on the freezing winds. Spock's Starfleet uniform was no match for the terrible cold that assaulted him.

He walked on mechanically.

He could not die here. There was too much at risk– Nyota, on whatever prison planet the New Frontier had left her; Starfleet, still so fragile even after over twenty years of slow rebuilding; his crewmates from the Defiant, still scattered through space in their escape pods, slowly dying; the constant Klingon threat; the recent increase in violent Romulan activity–

Spock could feel his body functions slowing down as his body prepared to fall into a healing coma. His limbs felt leaden, his vision darkened.

With his last efforts, he dragged his deadened body into a nearby cave, and fell into darkness.

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* * *

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"Ye're lucky I was out there," a voice with a thick Scottish brogue chided Spock as the Vulcan struggled to regain consciousness.

The first thing his brain registered was the voice that echoed fuzzily through his brain, bouncing through the crevices of his skull and only contributing to the aching pain.

But as his thoughts cleared, Spock began to notice everything else: warmth, the hum of machinery, the heavy feeling of a blanket draped over him.

He opened his eyes.

The dark-haired man wearing the red Starfleet uniform of an engineer who was fussing over him was not familiar to Spock, but the half-Vulcan had also been unaware that Starfleet maintained an outpost on this particular planet.

"Lieutenant Commander Spock, formerly of the USS Defiant," Spock introduced himself.

"Ye're awake!" the man started. "Sir!"

"At ease," Spock commanded. "Your name and rank?"

"Lieutenant Montgomery Scott, lone occupant of the Starfleet outpost on Delta Vega," the Scotsman said, saluting.

"So tell me, Lieutenant," Spock began, "How long has Starfleet maintained this outpost, and what is its purpose?"

"Ach, well..."

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3. **The changeling**

For all of his kindness, Montgomery Scott seemed to be on edge.

The Scotsman was constantly in motion– first pacing nervously, then standing still but tapping one restless foot against the floor, then pacing again.

A growing suspicion took root in the back of Spock's mind. "Mister Scott, exactly what were you doing–"

He didn't have the chance to finish.

There was a loud mechanical roar from outside, and Scott winced reflexively before glancing to see if Spock had caught the guilty reaction. "Just a friend o' mine," he explained vaguely.

"A friend?" Spock inquired carefully.

Scott fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, more of an acquaintance– perhaps ye'd better come and meet him."

Spock followed the human back outside into the cold, though the icy wind did not bother him as much now that he had proper coverings. The loud noise had been created by a shuttlecraft– an old, beat-up, out-dated shuttlecraft– that was now perched precariously on the landing pad on the planet's surface.

"Hey, Scotty!"

The man who vaulted out the shuttlecraft, crossed the landing pad in three quick strides, and embraced Scotty like a brother was tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed. His face, wreathed in joy as he chattered animatedly with the Scotsman, was almost too beautiful to be entirely human.

Then the stranger turned to Spock, and impossibly white teeth flashed in the bright wintery sunlight as the stranger smiled. "And who's this?" The stranger's eyes swept over Spock, and Spock examined the newcomer in turn.

His earlier observations were confirmed. The man was tall, above average for a human, and his skin was tanned from apparent exposure to sunlight. His hair was neatly trimmed, his skin free from blemishes, and his clothes were made of black leather.

"No, don't tell me." Intense blue eyes– too blue to be human, crystal-clear bright blue that practically glowed with internal light– narrowed slightly. "You must be Spock."

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Mister..." Spock prompted.

The man's grin only widened. "Call me JT."

Not a true name, then, but a nickname of some sort. Fascinating. "How were you able to ascertain my identity?" Spock asked, purely out of academic curiosity.

"Why, you're a very wanted man, Mister Spock," JT informed the half-Vulcan cheerfully. "One of Starfleet's best and brightest, not to mention one of the youngest Commanders in history! The bounty on your head is practically astronomical!"

"That does not adequately explain how you were able to deduct my identity so quickly," Spock refuted dryly. "My appearance is not common knowledge, and I am not so widely known that I am a household name."

JT only smiled mysteriously before turning back to Scotty.

"Got a new shipment of Romulan ale," he coaxed, gesturing towards his shuttle. "Want to come have a look?"

Spock nodded fractionally, and Scott agreed.

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* * *

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"Mister Scott," Spock said, taking Scotty by the arm and pulling him aside. "How well do you know this... trader?"

There was a moment of silence before Scott answered. "Not well at all, Mister Spock." His tone was contemplative. "Not well at all."

"Would you entrust him with the knowledge of the location of Starfleet Headquarters?" Spock pressed.

Scott couldn't contain a gasp of surprise. "Mister Spock!" he interjected, shocked. "Surely ye can't be thinkin' o'–"

"Mister Scott," Spock cut him off, "I am currently a wanted man with a large price on my head. If I attempted to purchase a ship by myself or make my way back to Headquarters alone, my chances of survival and success are a mere zero-point-two-six percent. JT is a smuggler and, I presume, reasonably proficient at concealing contraband items. With his aid–"

He trailed off. Scott was already shaking his head. "No," the engineer said immediately. "JT is... well, he's a tricky one, he is. But I don't think ye can trust him, not with somethin' that important."

"I see." Spock's brow furrowed pensively. "What sort of human would you say he was?"

"He's very, ah," Scotty paused, as if hesitant to speak.

"The word you're looking for is 'resourceful,'" said JT.

Scott and Spock looked up in surprise to see JT leaning against a bulkhead, looking as if he had been there for a while.

"No," Scott disagreed. "I meant t' say that ye were–"

"Resourceful," JT interrupted, shooting Scott a mild glare.

Scott frowned, then conceded the point. "Resourceful," he told Spock with a slight frown. JT smiled, waved, and walked off once more.

This time, the two Starfleet officers waited until he was out of earshot but still within eyeshot before continuing the conversation.

"Interesting," Spock said. "Very interesting. Mister Scott– would you say that the man has any kind of addition? Alcohol, drugs, gambling? Anything we could use as leverage?"

"I know what ye're thinkin', and it won't work. He's a gambler, alright, but a good one. Don't bet against him," Scott warned him.

"What leads you to this conclusion?" Spock folded his arms over his chest.

"Well," Scott squirmed with a mix of embarrassed emotions, "JT and I are in the habit o' playin' a game o' poker e'ery now an' then..."

"Poker," Spock repeated the word in consideration. "Yes, yes... I am familiar with this particular game. Very well. Mister Scott, you will play a few hands with the trader. After I have ascertained his strategy, I will intervene. Once I have acquired his ship, I will leave this planet."

Scott did his best to warn him off, but Spock would hear none of it.

The illogical human construction "luck" was simply no match for Vulcan intellect, logic, and card-counting.

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* * *

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True to his word, the engineer of Delta Vega engaged JT in a game of poker after an unappetizing meal from the outpost's replicators. Spock lingered in the door, just out of sight, analyzing the human's motions.

Once he had a grasp on the human's emotional tells, he stepped in.

"May I join?" Spock asked the blond trader.

"Sure," the man said with one of his bright, quicksilver grins. "You don't mind, do you, Scotty?"

"I want no part o' this," Scott grumbled, and pushed his pile of chips over in front of Spock. He paused only to hiss a quick "I warned you!" in Spock's ear before leaving the room.

JT watched the Scotsman's departure with some bemusement. He shook it off as the loud clatter of mechanical tools began to reverberate through the small outpost, and glanced at Spock. "All right. Ante up!"

After that, the game went much as Spock had predicted.

The human was good, there was no denying that. But he was a mere human, and he wore his emotions too openly to be as proficient as a Vulcan. In this arena, Spock had the clear advantage, with his carefully-won emotional control.

"Raise," Spock said, and pushed another stack of credits into the center of the table.

JT glanced down at his empty side of the table, over at the conspicuously large pile of credits in front of Spock, and finally at Spock himself. "Looks like I'm broke," he said slowly.

Spock most certainly did not feel the thrill of victory as the human played straight into his hands. "If you had any material items of value, those would be permissible as well, would they not?" the Vulcan asked.

"A case of Romulan ale," JT's eyes lit up. "How's that for you?"

"That would be acceptable."

JT's nervousness was obvious to Spock, whose acute senses were able to pinpoint the exact moment the trader's foot began to tap uneasily under the table.

JT wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He cursed under his breath– though Spock was not able to understand the language– as he lost the next round, and the next. Soon the blond was staring mournfully at his empty side of the table, his bright blue eyes darkened with thought.

Then it happened– a small flash of emotion as they dealt the next round. The trader had a decent hand for once, and he'd allowed his emotions to be revealed. Spock congratulated himself on his superior emotional control even as he raised the ante.

"I don't know what to tell you," JT said at length, after pondering what he could possibly use as collateral. "I don't have anything else–"

"May I suggest," Spock enunciated carefully, "your starship?"

"You really expect me to bet my ship?" JT's tone of voice was incredulous, but the look on his face as he glanced down at his cards was another story entirely. It told Spock that he had a passably good hand, good enough to entertain the thought of winning.

Spock thought of his own four-of-a-kind, and kept his face carefully blank. "It would only be logical."

"And I suppose you'd want the clothes off my back next," JT huffed in annoyance. There was a gleam in his blue eyes that told Spock that he was about to accept. "You know what? I'm feeling lucky right now. I'm going to do it– but only if you put in all your credits. My ship is worth more than just that." He nodded at the paltry stack of credits between them.

"Very well." Spock pushed his own credits into the pot.

JT still hesitated. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I haven't been doing so well, you know. Maybe I'd be better off not to–" He glanced wistfully down at his cards, and then at the pile of credits.

Spock knew he had to sweeten the pot. He couldn't let this chance get away, not when he was so close to his goal of getting off the planet. "I will also throw in my services as a science officer, as well as Mister Scott's services as an engineer," he offered quickly.

"You don't say!" JT's eyes brightened exponentially. "Well, I'm sold." He reached across the table, and after a moment's hesitation Spock shook his hand.

It was only when his touch telepathy picked up a vague sense of satisfaction that Spock began to entertain the idea that he had made a mistake.

"Right, then," JT smiled. "Are you ready to lose?"

"I do not believe that will be the case," Spock pushed aside the flicker of emotion. He was Vulcan after all, and emotions were illogical. He revealed his cards, confident in his victory. The chances that the scruffy trader had a better hand were astronomical. "As you can see, I clearly have the better..."

His voice trailed off. JT held his royal flush in the air a minute longer before tossing his cards to the table.

"It was nice doing business with you," JT said cheerfully. "I'm sure you'll be a wonderful addition to my crew."

Spock stared in shock.

Illogical, he thought.

The Scottish engineer entered the room, a scowl on his face, and he nodded as he saw the results of the game.

"Mister Scott," Spock said, his voice hoarse, "I regret to inform you that I gambled our services– and lost."

"I warned ye," Scotty only said mournfully, his Scottish brogue thickening. "I warned ye not to bet against him."

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4. **Catspaw**

"There she is!" JT announced proudly, gesturing at the ship that was just now becoming visible on the shuttle's forward viewscreen. "That's my baby!"

Spock and Scotty stared at the ship that they had unwittingly agreed to serve on– Scotty in horror, and Spock without expression.

It was a hideous hulking behemoth orbiting the icy planet was hardly worthy of the word 'ship.' Its blackened hull bore the marks of at least several decades' hard use; its bulkheads were pitted and scarred; its thrusters– hardly visible under a thick coat of grime and space dust– glowed a dull, menacing red.

"A garbage scow," Scotty said mournfully. "Ye really expect me to [–]"

JT turned and glared. "Are you insulting my babu?" he demanded dangerously.

"Oh, aye," Scotty retorted rebelliously. "She doesn't look like she should be hauling garbage– she looks like she should be hauled away as garbage! And ye're expecting me to... to... [?]"

"What Mister Scott is trying to say is that your ship certainly has... character," Spock said diplomatically, cutting off Scotty mid-rant.

"That she does," JT said fondly. "Isn't she a beauty? I call her the Enterprise."

Spock's eyes narrowed infinitesimally before he managed to regain his perfect control over his emotions. Could the scruffy trader know...?

But no, he reminded himself, that would be illogical. Starfleet's new flagship was being constructed in utmost secrecy. It was merely a coincidence that these two different ships shared the same name– coincidence, and nothing more.

JT opened a hailing frequency to the ship. "This is JT, authorization code Six-Nine-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot. Open doors to Shuttle Bay Three."

"Roger that, captain," the mechanical female voice of a ship's AI responded.

Spock started slightly. "That is a military-grade Artificial Intelligence unit," Spock pointed out emotionlessly. "Equipment which, I might point out, is far too advanced for a ship of this proportion and would be entirely superfluous based on the simplicity of the equations needed to run a ship of this type."

"Oh, Morgan's just something I picked up along the way," JT explained, unconcerned, as he expertly piloted the landing craft into the shuttle bay.

Spock kept the rest of his suspicions to himself as they waited for the shuttle bay to repressurize so they could exit the shuttlecraft. The bay was everything he had predicted based on his observations of the ship's exterior– plain, unadorned, rusted durasteel bulkheads, rough and scarred floors, and flickering lights overhead.

If the rest of the ship was in such terrible condition, it was no wonder JT had been so excited at the prospect of employing an engineer like Montgomery Scott.

"Right this way," JT vaulted from the shuttlecraft fluidly as he had on the planet's surface, and made a large, sweeping gesture with one arm. "I'll give you the official tour!"

Scott made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob as he took in the ship's condition.

Spock had expected the human to walk over to the large hangar doors that were prominently placed in the middle of the wall opposite. But JT walked past the large doors and over to what at first glance appeared to be a plain, relatively unscarred stretch of wall. A hidden panel was revealed to be a key pad of some kind, and JT tapped in a code and submitted to a retinal scan The plain wall was then revealed to be a hidden door, and JT waved them through.

Spock took in the smooth, shiny walls, the pristine floors and bright lights, and the sophisticated electronics with a blink and a murmured "Fascinating."

Montgomery Scott, on the other hand, was still staring around him with the look of a starving man who had abruptly come face-to-face with an all-you-can-eat buffet.

"Welcome to the Enterprise, gentlemen." He gestured down the long hallway. "Shall we?"

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* * *

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"...and this is Auxiliary Control." JT explained as he led them into a spacious room that appeared to have been modeled after the bridge of a starship. "Or, as I like to call it, the Control Room."

"Why the Control Room?" Spock asked. "Should the Bridge not have received that particular moniker?"

JT's grin was mischievous. "The Bridge, you see, is right over there. Through this door." He showed them the room in question: dirty, with wired hanging haphazardly from the ceiling and broken consoles flashing dim lights.

It was everything Spock would have expected of the Bridge given the state of the ship's exterior, and nothing compared to the reality of the Enterprise's interior.

"I don't understand," Scott protested.

Spock's formidable brain had already put the puzzle pieces together. "This room has been purposely left in this condition in order to give outside observers the impression that there is nothing of import or interest aboard the ship." He waited for his new captain's response, unsure if the human would take offense at his rather blunt explanation.

But JT only smiled. "I knew you'd get it," he said smugly. "You and I, we're going to have great fun together. Just you wait."

He led them back to Auxiliary Control.

"This is where most everything will happen, unless we're entertaining guests. Spock, I thought you'd be most comfortable with the Science Station..."

JT trailed off, his eyes fixed on a particular flashing light on the Communications station.

"Allow me." Spock had crossed the room and was at the station within moments. "Incoming transmission," he announced after a moment. "I an unable to verify the source."

"Specify," JT said.

"Curious... it appears to be a subspace radio message, but it has been bounced through so many relay stations and planetary orbits that its origin is no longer apparent."

JT relaxed, then, and smiled. "That's alright, then." He waved a hand at the viewscreen. "Just put it onscreen."

The view of Delta Vega was immediately obscured by a man in tightly-fitting black clothes. Hardly an inch of his skin was bared; even the man's head had been swathed in black fabric. Only the two dark slanted eyes were visible.

"India one seven," the black-clad man said curtly, his tone betraying no emotion. "Kilo. One bravo charlie. Five tango. Alpha– two delta." A long pause, and then: "Charlie alpha november three. Mike. End transmission."

The watchers were again abruptly staring back at the greyish-white surface of the planet they were orbiting.

"India one seven, huh?" JT murmured to himself, unaware that Spock's keen Vulcan ears could pick up on every word. The human leaned forward in his chair, his hands steepled before him, as he stared off into the stars.

"It appears to be some sort of code," Spock said.

"I know," JT said absently, still in thought. Then he nodded as if coming to a decision, and turned to Scott. "Scotty, set us a course for the Canopus system. Warp factor four."

"This ship doesn't have warp drive," Scotty protested even as he moved toward the navigator's station and began to input the coordinates.

"Of course she does, I installed it myself," JT said, annoyed.

Scotty stopped abruptly, his hands frozen over the console in a parody of surprise. Then he shook his head and continued inputting the destination. "It'll take us twenty hours to reach the Canopus system at current speed."

"Excellent," JT said, and the displeased emotion melted from his face. "That'll give me just enough time to show you how to operate the cloaking device."

A brief pause.

"Cloaking device?" Spock and Scotty asked in stereo.

"Oh, just something I picked up along the way. Nothing to worry about," JT explained easily. Then he paused and turned back to Scotty. "Oh, and you might want to familiarize yourself with the transporter, too."

"Transporter?" Scott parroted, eyes widening dramatically. "Ye mean this ship has a transporter?"

"It's just something–" JT began.

"–Ye picked up along the way, I believe ye," Scotty finished for him sarcastically. But there was a smile on his face and a spring in his step as he followed JT back into the bowels of the ship.

Spock stared at the departing surface of Delta Vega, then turned to follow them.

Scotty's voice echoed down the hallway: "What do ye mean, do I know how t' operate an ion cannon?"

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* * *

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The Enterprise, cloaked under its stolen Romulan device, glided invisibly into the Canopus system.

"Take us to the third planet. There should be a single Klingon battlecruiser in orbit."

Scott had apparently decided that questioning the captain's every move– no matter how strange and utterly undecipherable those moves might be– was a failed strategy. He obeyed wordlessly.

"One Klingon battlecruiser," Spock confirmed from his place at the Science station. "Orbiting the M-class planet Canopus three."

"Scotty, charge the ion cannon. On my mark, fire three shots across their bow. Don't hit them, just attack close enough to scramble their shields and scanners."

JT was relaying orders from within a small shuttle, from which he would board the vessel; once he had confounded its scanners, Spock would beam over to join him.

"Ready, set," JT said, angling the shuttlecraft. "Fire!"

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* * *

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Spock materialized in the smoky underbelly of the Klingon battlecruiser. Smog obscured much of the ship's architecture from view, but what little Spock could see was worn, rusted metal. The loud shrieks of some sort of animal echoed eerily through the metal room.

"Over here," JT's voice called.

Spock gingerly made his was through the smoke over to where JT was replacing a panel on the wall.

"I tricked the internal sensors into thinking that there's no life support on this deck," JT explained. "That should give us about ten minutes or so."

"I fail to see the purpose of this venture," Spock said stiffly, holding himself rigidly so as not to come into any more contact with the filthy ship than was absolutely necessary.

JT smiled. "Just follow me."

The laden shuttlecraft landed a mite heavily, and the shuttle bay had only barely just repressurized before JT leapt out of the craft and strode over to where Scotty waited. "Did they buy it?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh, aye," Scott confirmed. "Hook, line, and sinker. They're transmittin' a short-range distress call sayin' they've been caught by an ion storm."

"A distress call, eh?" JT's eager look faded into a vulpine look of cunning. "Well, we'd better not leave them waiting..."

"Your orders, captain?" Scott asked eagerly.

JT said grinned viciously. The bloodthirsty expression was so out of place on the beautiful face that Scotty did a momentary double-take. "First, beam the contents of Cargo Bay Two into the deck we just vacated. Then we'll..."

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* * *

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Captain Krase of the Imperial Klingon Ship _Amar_ was not having a good day.

He'd been on a routine exploration mission, scouting out formerly-Federation territory. Not a particularly glorious mission, true, but he obeyed orders faithfully.

Canopus III was a planet that had been only on the fringes of Federation territory, before the interplanetary union had shrunk in the wake of Starfleet's near-destruction. It was an uncontested planet, bearing none the sentient life, ideal living conditions, or mineral wealth necessary for it to become a contested item.

All in all, a routine mission.

Then the ion storm had hit the _Amar_, and everything had changed.

Krase had been a captain for over five years and an officer in the Imperial Klingon Fleet for over twenty years. He'd weathered his share of ion storms, and had a goodly amount of stories to tell about the strange things that could result from them.

A crippled warp drive, malfunctioning sensors, and hardly-functional life support system were only the tip of the iceberg where ion storms were concerned. When he considered the possibilities–

–the crew of the _Maht-H'a_, for example, who had been found completely inverted, with their skin on the inside and their guts splattered over the decks where they had died; the story of the _Somraw_, where the crew had spontaneously sprouted wings and feathered tails; or countless other ships who had been utterly destroyed, with only the smallest of fragments to show their passing–

–Well, he would consider himself lucky, for the most part.

Only for the most part, though, he winced as a particularly loud bout of shrieking assaulted his ears. Wherever tribbles were concerned, there was no luck to speak of. "How many of those infernal beasts are left?" he ground out through gritted teeth.

The rapid fire of his crew's weapons paused somewhat. "They've infested the decks," his first officer and science officer, Komal, panted. "I think the ion storm might have mutated them– they're beginning to eat through the durasteel!"

Mutant tribbles. Better and better.

"Sir!" Helmsman Karnog saluted his captain. "Unknown vessel incoming at sublight speed!"

Science Officer Komal growled in frustration. "Long-range sensors are still not functioning," he grunted as he turned from his tribble-killing spree and back to his station. He ripped open the console and began to sort through the tangled mess of wires within.

"Put it on screen," Krase ordered.

It took a moment for the picture to clear– and even then it was still staticky and vague. But it was enough, and Krase allowed himself to relax fractionally into his chair. That ugly, rusted hunk of metal was no Starfleet, Andorian, Romulan, or Orion ship; from the looks of it, it didn't even have any weapons systems.

"Open a hailing frequency," Krase waited until his communications officer had given him the ready signal before continuing. "Unidentified vessel! This is the IKS _Amar_. Identify yourself or be destroyed!"

There was a moment. Static hissed loudly through the speakers, punctuating the silence. Then the viewscreen snapped abruptly to an image of the interior of the alien vessel. The image was grainy and blurry, but Krase was able to make out a pale, humanoid shape though its face remained indistinct.

"Klingon vessel _Amar_," the humanoid– from the sound of him, young, male, and possibly human– said clearly. "This is the garbage scow and transport vessel _Enterprise_. How may we be of assistance?"

The tension was broken utterly. There was a muffled snort of laughter from Karnog, and not even Krase was able to contain the derisive curl of his lips as he responded, "Help? From a worthless garbage scow?"

"We were just responding to a distress call, since we were in the area," the human replied, apparently insulted. "But since we're clearly unwelcome, we'll just be on our way..."

Krase sobered abruptly. "Wait, human. You said this was a transport vessel? Who or what are you transporting?"

The human might have made some sort of facial expression, but the transmission was to blurry to communicate it. "I don't answer to you, Klingon. But we carry a shipment of spare parts bound for the colony on Archanis IV."

"Archanis..." the Klingon captain's eyes narrowed. "That's a Klingon colony! Just what are you carrying?"

"Mostly foodstuffs," the human allowed ungracefully, "Bloodwine, baghol, some live targ. Live gagh. Some bladed weapons. Nothing extremely harmful."

Krase's mind was working overtime. Between the ion storm and the tribble infestation, most of the _Amar_'s food supplies had been wiped out. It was extremely coincidental for a cargo ship to be passing by at that exact moment with a shipment of Klingon foods, especially a cargo ship manned by a human.

On the other hand, the universe was apparently trying to make up for his previous bad luck, and who was he to argue with destiny?

"Well then, garbage scow Enterprise," the Klingon bared his teeth at the viewscreen. "I believe we can come to a mutually profitable agreement..."

.

* * *

.

"And that, gentlemen," JT announced as he flopped into the captain's chair, one leg dangling over the armrest, his head pillowed in the crook of his arm. "That is how you successfully pull off a heist."

The Klingon vessel _Amar_ faded into the black of space, and the unorthodox crew of the garbage scow Enterprise breathed a sigh of relief as they made it away safely.

"A good haul," JT continued smugly. "Twenty thousand credits, five crates of Romulan ale, quite a few photon torpedoes, the satisfaction of a job well done... Not to mention, it always gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside when I think about the fact that there's one fewer armed and dangerous Klingon ship out there for the time being."

Spock was too engrossed in the sensor readings and computer logs he'd downloaded from the Klingon ship's unprotected computer banks to respond.

"Ye're all right, lady," Scotty told the ship, patting a nearby console with a gentle hand. "Ye're all right."

"I'm glad you think so," JT said, then gestured toward the stars before them. "Shall we?"

"Captain!" Spock called automatically, and winced mentally at having accidentally referred to this particular trader by that name. He pushed his doubts aside. "Incoming transmission from the same source!"

JT made a quick hand motion, and immediately the stars were replaced by the same black-clad man. "India three zero," the man said emotionlessly. "Alpha. One charlie sierra. Three five tango. Negative alpha." A pause. "Juliet alpha november six. Foxtrot. End transmission."

"Captain?" Scotty prompted him.

"Set a course for the Janus system," JT ordered. "Warp one."

"Course laid in, sir."

JT smiled. "Make it so."

.

* * *

End note: ::Points behind you:: Hey, look over there! Space pirates! ::Steals your wallet::

Feel free to express your joy, admiration, and/or complete and utter disgust in a review!


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